To Make a Memory
by Katsuji
Summary: AU - Unedited Drabbles. He doesn't mind the strange villager who comes to visit him often. He enjoys the visits, and just maybe, they will bring back what they both seemed to have lost. Or alternatively, Hiccup drowns at the age of seven, making Snotlout the only eligible heir. And Snotlout? He makes a friend down by the Caves of Ægir. But it's all very complicated, really.
1. One : Cabin Fever

**To Make a Memory**

 **Chapter One:** **Cabin Fever**

* * *

Hiccup is sick of it. Sick of being alone at home. Sick of having to cook for himself. [Heck, he is barely tall enough to reach the middle shelves in the food cellar!] Sick of having no one around and a father who never listens to him. He will prove to everyone that he could be a Viking too!

But right now? Right now, he is frustrated, angry, and most of all, lonely.

It is the middle of devastating winter, the storm outside is blowing fiercely against the wood. The entire house trembles slightly as it braves the ghastly storm. The adults are having a meeting in the Great Hall, discussing food rations and potential dragon attacks. Or maybe they are going over the town's defenses, Gobber's schematics strewn about the table that Gobber had been nice enough to show and explain each one in detail to him. This has been the fifth meeting this week, and considering it is Frigg's Day? Well, that would make it a meeting a day already, and it seems like it will stay that way for a couple of weeks [As usual…]. He feel restless, itching to do something or at least find something else to occupy his time. Whenever he feels like this, he usually goes to one of two places: The Forge or The Cove.

The Forge is an amazing place to work at, the metal shimmering hot to produce vibrant and beautiful colors only the sunset could replicate. Metal or iron piled up in clusters, separated only by a system that only he and Gobber could understand really. Weapons sharpened are hung on organized racks, ready to be taken back by their owners or claimed by a new one, while orders are piled in stacks or shoved into barrels to be done later. It is surprisingly fun to carve intricate designs into the metal, even if no one but Gobber really paid attention to them. Sometimes, he is even allowed to make the occasional dagger for someone, though Gobber usually takes the credit for that one. [Most people hate the idea of owning something made by Hiccup the _Useless_.] But due to the storm, Gobber has barricaded the place up good, and it would take weeks, if not months, to even find a possible entrance into the Forge in this kind of weather. By then, the storm will have died down a bit, and Gobber will have let him in already. So there isn't much point in going there at the moment.

Then there is the Cove, a beautiful and peaceful place, walled in by the stone cliffs around it. The trees above provide, amazingly enough, protection from the snow and ice. The small pond there usually had fish that will gently swim around unless disturbed, though it is most likely frozen over for now. He has a sneaking suspicion that the pond is connected to the ocean somehow; Otherwise, why would there be fish in a pond that probably didn't have any fish to start out with? He is afraid to check for any kind of underwater entrance though, since he is not sure he can hold his breath that long. There are rocks and tree roots in the clearing big enough where he can hide under and sleep comfortably for a while. The path to the Cove is relatively calm, and it will not take too long to travel down there and let loose some of his feelings. He has done it before, last devastating winter, so he is sure that he can make the trip again.

Mind set, Hiccup throws on a thicker jacket and wraps himself in his blanket. Getting down from his room is like every other routine he has done for the past years, giving him a sense of familiarity. He opens the door slowly, inching his way out so that there will less snow in the house that he will have to clean up when he gets back. He closes the door, the freezing winds roughly pushing at his clothes, and never looks back.


	2. Two : Devastating Winter

**To Make a Memory**

 **Chapter Two: Devastating Winter**

* * *

The wind is screaming all around him. Yelling and shouting in a language probably only Njörður or Höðr will understand, the wind cuts sharply against what little of his skin is exposed. Light cuts randomly appear as he walks, probably from the hail being blown around with the wind. He remembers the trek being less painful before. He supposes this year's storm has been especially strong and why it has got all the adults worked up about lasting through the winter. He has been through seven devastating winters and this year has been, by far, the worst. He wants to be selfish; he wants to be around his father, but Hiccup knows that things do not work like that. He knows he cannot just ask his father to take a break from his duties as Chief just because he wants him to be around the house. Because both he and his dad care about the village, about the townspeople [Even if said townspeople barely tolerated him…], to really have much time for each other. Not that it will be any better when they are together, awkward silence usually ends up prevailing.

It is hard to see in front of him, the blizzard blowing around him like a dozen swirling ice-feathers moving faster than the eye can see. The trees are loosening up, slowly fading away into the white. He probably made a wrong turn somewhere. Unsure where to go, he stops at what seems to be the forest's edge, though with this much snow, it is hard to tell. Suddenly, the wind lets up for just a moment.

The sight is breathtaking.

The clearing before him is a gently slanting slope, completely pristine and untouched, that stretches about half a mile wide. There are not even animal tracks that he can see to mar the smooth surface of the snow. The entire hill is plantless, save for the edges where the forest starts once more. The snow shimmers a brilliant blue ever so often before the snow manages to cover the alluring color once more. He really wishes he had his journal with him right now, just to capture the image forever. Another flash of cerulean blue in the distance catches his eyes, and he grins with excitement. He gets a glimpse of the Cove just before the storm picks up again, and while he is freezing his butt off and probably miles away from his home, all he has to do was cross this clearing, walk a few miles through the forest again, and then follow the hollow river to be where he originally intended to be. Maybe when the weather blew over and it was not hailing like no tomorrow, he will try to find this clearing again to simply bask in the what will probably be an astounding view of the island.

He starts walking again, glad to have his bearings again. He wraps his blanket around him tighter, burrowing into the soft furs. Adventuring out like this, it is more amazing and fun than he originally thought it would be. He used to have a hard time being around anyone since Fishlegs got his growth spurt and did not want to hang out with Hiccup anymore. But then he found that there were things he liked to do and things that no one seemed interested in, and he was good at them. So, he trudged through it like he has done for practically everything in his life so far. Just like he is making his way, slowly but surely, through the disastrous storm. He is glad that he brought his thick boots, and an extra shirt, and it was definitely a good idea to bring the blanket that he is currently huddling in. The wind feels like it has picked up since he started walking. And he begins to wonder if the gods… No, he _knows_ the gods hate him. It is getting harder to walk further and harder to even keep his eyes open enough to see where he is going. He realizes he has stopped moving because he feels more tired than he thought and the cold has reached his bones more thoroughly than he has ever experienced before. The adrenaline is finally leaving him, but that makes him more determined than ever to reach his destination.

He stomps down on the ice with all the vigor of a seven-year-old.

And hears the crack too late.

The sound of running water reaches his ears and so does the freezing cold. Too soon, he is drenched to the bone in freezing cold water, head underwater. There is no time to scramble for the edge. The water is faster than his reflexes which have been slowed by the cruel and unrelenting cold. The river sweeps his body down the hill, his body just small enough to shoot through the tunnel created by the current. The blurry image of the cloud-filled sky and the raging white registers briefly in his mind before blackness quickly replaces it all. He loses consciousness within minutes.


	3. Three : Gone

**To Make a Memory**

 **Chapter Three: Gone**

* * *

The sun has undoubtedly long set by the time Stoick manages to leave the Great Hall. The meeting dragged on longer than he thought, making sure families were being adequately fed or determining whether to move another family into the Great Hall. There are three families that have already relocated into the Great Hall due to the cold. [Not enough firewood around to stay in their respective homes anymore. New trees will have to be planted come spring. Hopefully they will grow out come the summer after.] Despite the storm, defenses must be kept to which Stoick plans to check them over with his brother, Spitelout, and Gobber in the next few days. The storm has likely damaged portions of the town which will have to be repaired and maintained afterwards. Luckily, dragon attacks during such weather are rare and far between. Making sure food has been adequate [The chickens producing eggs, the yaks producing milk, and enough of summer's harvest to go around to last themselves through the season] has been and still is a top priority. But dragon attacks and decreasing food supplies are not the only things he has to worry about. As he climbs up the hill to his home, he watches the familiar building withstand the harsh weather and gives a withering sigh.

He definitely has more than just the town to worry about.

He collects his thoughts together, setting them aside for now. He can finally get out of this blasted weather, the God of Pranksters most likely laughing his head off at the amount of snow that has managed to cover Stoick in the time the trek from the Great Hall took. Shaking off the frost, he opens the door and expects to hear a tired but warm greeting. He wants to sigh at the thought, knowing that his son has once again stayed up despite the amount of times he has made Hiccup promise to sleep if it gets too late.

Whenever Stoick left home for long hours that crossed into the night, Hiccup always ended up sleeping downstairs, to which Stoick would take it upon himself to tuck the boy in bed immediately afterwards. Hiccup would wait, blanket in tow, until Stoick would come home just to mutter a tired, sleep-filled welcome with good nights and quiet snores soon after. Though he wished that Hiccup would go to sleep earlier and get a better night's sleep, he could not say that the action was completely unwanted. It was touching, and would chase away whatever chill the night might have brought.

Tonight though, no such comfort greets his ears.

Thinking that Hiccup finally managed to sleep through the sound of opening the door, Stoick looks towards the chair where Hiccup will usually sit and wait in. However, the boy is not in there. Scanning the room, Stoick finally notices that Hiccup is not downstairs at all. In fact, the entire first floor looks untouched from this morning. Usually, an empty plate or bowl will be sitting on a table, waiting to be cleaned or put away. Leftover food might be sitting on the table for him or a small fire will be warming the house a bit. The fireplace is cold, the ashes long dead and blackened, and the house has become eerily quiet. Hoping that the atmosphere is just his imagination, he walks up to Hiccup's room in hope that his son is sleeping soundly under the thick covers. He is afraid to call out, in case his son is sleeping, which will result in disturbing his son's slumber. He gently pushes open the door and pokes his head through the doorway.

And then throws it open.

 _ **Bang.**_

The sound of the door hitting against the wall cacophonies throughout the house. The bed is empty, the blanket missing as well. Stoick rushes down the stairs, hoping that his son might just have passed out from exhaustion in the food cellar. Hopefully, a bad case of frostbite is all his son will have if he is indeed down there. He wrenches open the entrance and calls down.

"Hiccup?!" Stoick shouts as he descends the ladder.

There is no response, and no sight of him either. Stoick proceeds to check every corner of the house, upturning tables and chairs, beds and furs. His son is nowhere to be found. Precious minutes pass by, but it feels like hours of panic. Hiccup would not be stupid enough to head out into this kind of weather. Someone must have been crazy enough to traverse through this kind of storm and kidnap his son, yet there are no signs of struggle and no signs of a break-in. He throws open the front door, despite the storm and despite the snow getting into the house.

"Hiccup!" He yells out the door, hoping he can miraculously spot his son in the snow.

But there is no such luck.


	4. Four : Another One

**To Make a Memory**

 **Chapter Four: Another One**

* * *

The storm does not lighten and the season does not change, not even for the Stoick the Vast. Devastating winter continues to take its toll on the Isle of Berk, and never has that statement been more accurate and more painful for the Chief.

Soon after realizing his shouts would bring no benefit to anyone, he immediately trudged through the harsh winds to Spitelout's house followed closely by a visit to Gobber's. He dared not ask anyone more at the time, having asked the townspeople to endure long hours of discussion and arguing and tension at the Great Hall long enough. Yet with their numbers at a disadvantage, the three had set out, searching through the town, looking through every which way, back under, through there, and around again. Looking for footsteps would have been in vain; The blizzard easily masked their own set of fresh ones within minutes. By the time each of them got home, all of them needed a good thawing out, courtesy of a few good whacks of Gothi's stick for being fools.

The look of pity from her was inevitable.

Stoick was devastated, even if his facial expression had said otherwise. But the three of them knew each other far too well, and Spitelout and Gobber saw through his act like sunlight through water. Neither of them had been spared by the swift turn of events either. His brother wore an unsettled look throughout the night and the day after, borderlined with hope and apprehension and mixed with a heavy dose of frustrated sadness. And while it turned into determination after, Stoick supposed that his brother had much to sort out over the first night. Spitelout truly and genuinely cared for his nephew, for Stoick's son. Perhaps there were times his brother wished that Loki's pranks would befall Hiccup, so that his son Snotlout would become next-in-line to the Chief of Berk, but never would his brother have wished for Hiccup to disappear so completely, so absolutely. There had been long discussions between Stoick and Spitelout, when the differences between their sons had grown steadily more noticeable and the whispers around town more prominent, in which they would deliberate over long nights till dawn on who would make the better Chief. Fierce arguments and calm statements battled through the night until they both had agreed that Hiccup would remain heir, if only by a slight advantage. Snotlout was, and may never be, fully ready to be Chief. And that was a fact that Spitelout, regardless of all the pride and expectations he had for Snotlout, had conceded. With Hiccup gone, Snotlout becoming the next Chief needed to be considered seriously now. And for that, maybe his brother was… afraid.

And, well Gobber, if he wasn't out there searching for Hiccup no matter how many times he was about to freeze to death, then he was out searching for Hiccup as he was freezing to death. He essentially dropped everything, and had not stopped his pursuit since he first heard of Hiccup's disappearance. Stoick has had to drag his best friend out of the weather for a breather more than once this past week, and it was unlikely it would stop anytime soon. Gobber viewed Hiccup like a son and nephew, that much was clear, and was as much of a wreck as Stoick was on the inside. If it weren't for his duties as Chief, Stoick would have certainly joined the man in hunting down any trace of his son. For that, the amount of effort and care the man showed for Hiccup, Stoick was eternally grateful for. Though by then, word had spread throughout the town. By the third day, nearly all of the villagers barring the elderly and the young had at least pitched in to help the search.

But more than week had gone by, and now the fourth week is painfully rolling in.

At this point, Stoick knows that unless Hiccup managed to reach some sort of shelter and stay warm, that his son was most likely dead. Many of the villagers have begun to share the same sentiment, and he has been given time to mourn. And it is where he is now, sitting in his home and cradling his son's journal in his hands. Gobber and Spitelout are continuing their search, now that the storm is beginning to lighten in hopes that they may find a body or at least some article of clothing.

He heaves a heavy sigh.

A moment passes before he quietly tucks his son's journal into the folds of his clothes. Slowly, as if the weight of a thousand men weighed down on his body, he grabs a set of furs and wraps them around his body. He turns to the door, steps just before it, and takes a deep breath. One hand rests on the old yet new wood. He can almost imagine a second hand, much smaller than his own, just below his and a smile his will sorely miss.

He breaths out.

Another night, another day.

* * *

 **[Author's Note]: Sorry for the Delay. Dead Tired.**


	5. Five : Reeling Feelings

**To Make a Memory**

 **Chapter Five: Reeling Feelings**

* * *

Snotlout's not sure what he should be feeling right now.

That much he can say right off the bat. At first, he was really, really, _really_ annoyed. His father went out every night for a near two months! Snotlout thought the meetings that Un- _Chief_ Stoick [By Thor, he really needs to get it together. Dad already told him multiple times, that's multiple times too many Dad says, that he's not to call the Chief 'Uncle' anymore. He's grown-up now; Things are more serious now.] held due to some of the other families not having enough firewood or food or whatever kept him away. And since the last weeks of the storm rolled around, he supposed that it wasn't all too unexpected. Not that he really cared all too much, but he liked to help out some of the closer neighbors when he could actually see past three inches of his face in the thick storm. [Too bad he has to keep it a secret from Dad and even his neighbors, though he's pretty sure Mom knows. They were Vikings, and Vikings didn't really _do_ 'softness', whatever that was.] But devastating winter ended almost a month ago, and Dad was still going out _every_ night. So obviously he had to ask why. And what did he get as an answer?

Hiccup.

He says it in that painfully familiar, gruff voice.

There was no further explanation besides that. His father answered with his back turned towards him, staring out the door and tense as he was on a particularly bad dragon raid. Dad answered in a clipped tone; his voice held an emotion Snotlout couldn't pinpoint, though he assumed it was anger. Because, well... _Come on_ , it was Hiccup his father was talking about. His useless, fishbone of a cousin. Sure, his cousin could think of better and wordier comebacks, and worked at the forge with all the cool-looking weapons and traps, but Hiccup pretty much sucked at everything that being a Viking was all about. He could hardly lift any weapon, there were no muscles to his body, he was afraid of the weirdest things like trolls, and he got into trouble more often than it hailed. And that was describing some of his cousin's better days. Why Hiccup went around believing trolls stole all his left socks made absolutely no sense to Snotlout.

He was _so_ not ready for the announcement.

Dad came home late last night. He looked tired, defeated even, and all Snotlout really wanted was to perk him up again. He bounded up energetically, lugging an axe to show him all the cool moves he practiced while his dad was gone. His mom smiled softly in the background. It took all of one second for his dad to look blankly at Snotlout before collapsing onto the his knees, arms wrapped around his son in a desperate hold, whispering that he loved him and would always be proud of him no matter how bad things get and how he was just so happy to have him and- and…

His dad cried on his shoulder. He was not entirely sure what happened beyond that though. Vikings weren't supposed to cry unless they were small babies, helpless vikings-to-be that haven't grown up enough to understand things and had to whine about everything. Yet, here was his father crying and his mind couldn't process beyond that fact. His mother was right next to him, hugging the both of them. The back of his father's jacket was tightly gripped in his small hands. The door slammed loudly and the room felt even darker, despite the amount of candles still lit. The noise, or maybe it was the silence, grew to be too much as he quickly lost the battle of sleep. But before he could succumb to the darkness, he was able to hear the start of worried whispers from his parents intensifying in his ears.

Hiccup is declared dead the next day. Gobber is nowhere to be found. Everyone on Berk is there, even the cranky, old Mildew. Old Grumps, the name Snotlout and Hiccup would call Grandfather, will be traveling to Berk as soon as Trader Johann delivers the message. Stoick stands tall at the front, but it is easy to tell that time has caught him hard.

The funeral is short.

With no body to burn, there isn't much need for a pyre. Un- _Chief_ Stoick gives a brief, terse eulogy for Hiccup. Snotlout can see the tears the man holds back, he is sure that a lot of the others could too, but no one comments on it. Snotlout feels numb, Dad standing next to him with a firm yet reassuring hand on his shoulder. Snotlout sees the Chief holding a folded cloth against his body.

At night, he stares up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, when the sun kissed both the sky and the ocean, he will be declared as the heir of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe.

* * *

 **[Author's Note]: Sorry for the Delay. Vacation, Sickness, then College were Tough Obstacles. Wrestling Them was No Easy Task.**


	6. Interlude One : Inhale-Exhale

**To Make a Memory**

 **Interlude One : Inhale/Exhale**

* * *

He spirals through the air, the night disguising his figure as he lands gracefully on the sand, his wings flapping majestically before they are folded close to his body. Other dragons will be gathering around the area over the next few days. He always liked coming earlier though, before his fellow allies would swarm the area in attempt to gather more food for the queen.

He walks over to the dark cave, lighting and padding the sand briefly before settling down, and waits. He slowly takes in the atmosphere. The familiar sound of water washing against the shore, the smell of the sea and salt against the cool air of the night, the distant sounds of clanking and mindless chatter he can not quite understand slowly filter through the calm silence. He likes this beach, far enough from the queen's roar for it to slightly fade into the background and enough distractions for him to mostly ignore it.

At the very least, he is allowed to visit a friend while he is here. And that is already enough of reason to visit.

He closes he his eyes to the starry sky against a nearly-as-dark ceiling, and sleeps.

* * *

He wakes to the shadow cast over his form by a figure at the entrance of the cave.

He bounds up happily, warbling out a greeting. His friend sends a similar greeting, a croon that contrasts sharply to the usual loud roars his friend makes. The sun has risen for a few hours now judging by the direction of the shadows against the bright sand. The air is still bitingly crisp, and his friend smells like the deep sea salt. The elder dragon is old enough for him to consider his friend as kin, but has been more of mentor to him.

His friend's charges suddenly tackle him, and a mock fight ensues. Small, playful roars mix with his violet-colored blasts, the sand taking the brunt of the fire only to be washed away by the rhythmic beats of the tide. They play through the day, secluded from other dragons where it is just the two of them and the young ones. They fish together, the elder dragon easily gathering more fish than him. He does not hold it against the other. His friend is built for the sea, while he has and always will be for the sky.

They let the small ones eat first, catching up and enjoying the presence of each other. When the young ones are off to squeeze a little more play, he and the elder dragon feast on what is left. A portion is saved for when he will return to the dragon's nest. He is lucky to reliably receive food, though he helps those who are not so fortunate. He has already seen his share of other dragons swallowed whole by the queen and tries to minimize the chance of the event occurring. Only a one more night left.

When the heavens blacken, his friend brings over another treasure. A gift that the elder dragon always gives on the first day of their time together. He keeps all the treasures he received so far in the cave: a gold coin, a cleaned bone of something large from sea afar, a sea rock that made for a great back scratcher among other things. He has tried to return the favor, but the elder dragon has been frustratingly obstinate, patting his head into submission until he feels like a hatchling all over again. He tries to push a gift of his own, some wool of the elusive small, black animal he sometimes spots in the human nest. The… 'sheep', he once heard one of the humans shout. He is blocked before he even gets it out. Of course he feels like he has the right to pout. It does not help that his friend laughs good-naturedly.

This time, he brings a pile of human furs. Warmed by the sun, he can smell the faint scent of something foreign and the heat of the sunshine. He thanks his friend, nuzzles against him, and bids his family farewell as they retreat into the sea. After they have left, he brings the furs into the cave, carefully lights a circle around it, and wraps himself around the pile.

It is surprisingly warmer than he originally thought.

Sleep comes easily. And the stars shine brightly once again. Another night passes.

* * *

The next day alternates between play and flying across the sea, his friend just underneath the surface of the water. The pile of fish set aside grows larger. He longs for the day when he will not need the pile anymore. When night falls, the family returns home until the next time he visits.

He curls around the pile of furs once more and breaths out.

He lets everything out, calming his thoughts and tuning into the queen's voice that he has been ignoring the past few days. He empties himself, a blank slate, and lets the focus come instinctively. He opens his eyes to the night sky. The stars seem dimmer now, fading against the pitch-black expanse. It will be his field, his specialty.

Tomorrow night, he will hunt with the others.

* * *

 **[Author's Note]: Been a While. Sorry for the Lack of Updates. Finals were Rough, But Here is a Christmas Update.**


End file.
